


for the last flower in the hair withers

by strangesmallbard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Young!Cora, and baby Regina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesmallbard/pseuds/strangesmallbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are days when Cora is stifled by the wretched cries. They trap her and repel her with their mourning, like her daughter already knows her life isn’t hers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the last flower in the hair withers

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the E.E. Cummings poem, “Cruelly, Love”

There are days when Cora is stifled by the wretched cries. They trap her and repel her with their mourning, like her daughter already knows her life isn’t hers. She leans over the scrunched up face and soft wisps of black hair and those fingers curling in and out of powerful fists, and wonders what Regina’s heart is thinking at that precise moment when she opens her eyes after a particular piercing scream and those same eyes she herself spent hardening in the mirror shine with nothing but innocence. 

It makes her sick, the lurch threatening to spill out. She lifts the baby up and holds her to her breast, the cries stifled by confusion for Cora never holds her with such vitality, as if she’s afraid to let go. Cora knows Regina is hers. Cora knows Regina won’t ever be away from her. A sniffle, and the baby is quieted, and so are the stirrings in Cora’s chest cavity. 

Love, love is so fickle. 

A mother’s unwavering  _devotion_  is powerful.

Today is like all days. She doesn’t spend any more nights with Henry; if he decides to find pleasure in another wench, she doesn’t particularly care as long as he never betrays her. He knows now very well what happens to those who do; she’ll never forget the pallor of his face or the widening of his eyes when he saw her pull a heart out for the first time. And how that look never quite left since. She’d shown that heart to Regina that night, her daughter pressed a small hand to it as the magic surrounding its fragility caused it to keep beating on strong. Her tiny mouth parted as it beat underneath her fingertips, and she giggled like it was a new toy. Cora had taken the heart away immediately; for hearts weren’t toys, and evidence of Regina’s own was an oddly cruel reminder of something.

(She’d glared at the tiny face until a frown appeared and a hand reached for a locked of curled hair).

(She’d make  _sure_  Regina wouldn’t need it anymore.) 

She wakes up to a soft cry; like a call of a morning bird. Sunlight, relentless, streams through the stained glass. She sits up in her bed, her chest heaving with affects of sleep, her fingers grasping the duvet tightly as if she’d awoke from a nightmare. Panels of rich pinks and greens stream across her cream colored sheets, creating vibrant color anew, and a deep headache to grow between her temples. Her first instinct is to rush over to the drapes and close them herself, but her memory catches up to her, and a smirk dances across her features.

She calls the servants with a terrifying joviality. They rush in, pink faced and ready to appease. She orders the stout one to close the drapes, and the unease in her head is immediately lifted by the darkening. She orders the thin, waifish one to hand her the purple robe across her vanity chair. The girl’s nervous fingers drape the robe around Cora’s shoulders, and Cora relishes the silk and gives her a predatory smile that a wild cat could only hope to possess, and the girl visibly gulps and shirks, hiding behind her stout protector. 

She wonders how the girl’s heart would feel in her hands: light, perhaps? Or heavy with the weight of sorry adulthood already upon her maiden shoulders? Would it glow like the young noble girls with swan-like necks and pin curls and cheeks like rose in spring? Or would a black spot be burrowed in those lush red midsts, like she imagines Eva’s is. 

(The goodly evil is the most of all).

If anything, it would satisfying to see the girl’s fear leave her eyes along with everything else. Perhaps this waif could benefit by answering to her every whim; at least she wouldn’t be so uncertain, so relying on this stout matron for guidance. Oh, Cora would guide her. Shape her, how malleable a freshly heartless innocent would be. Perhaps she’d order her to kill the stout one, just for laughs. To see the lack of remorse on her face, and see the reminders of power over love.  

She reaches forward for a moment, and the stout matron lifts an arm up in protection.

Cora’s lip quirks up and tells them to run along to their other duties. She almost sounds kind, and that must be the most unnerving part. The matron asks if she’d like the baby brought to her. Cora’s mouth curls up and she stalks over to the baby’s crib in a flourish of silk and hisses: _You are dismissed._

(She wonders what the sunrise would have looked like with a heart.) 

She leans over the baby’s crib and takes in her daughter’s features: the plump pink lips, the inquisitive eyes, the wisps of hair. She recognizes the face of her mother, and reaches a small hand up. Cora leans down and allows the baby to grasp her finger for a moment, before pulling back once more.

"Good morning, my darling." The baby gurgles and place all of her fingers in her mouth. Displeased, Cora wrenches them away. Confused as only a disoriented baby can be, Regina begins to cry. No, not these tears. Pathetic from tiny wants taken for the sake of her own being. Cora won’t have it.

"Hush." She soothes, her voice rich as honey. She finally picks the baby up, and settles her gently in her arms, rocking her. In the beginning, she hadn’t known what to do. The baby cried no matter her method, and she was about ready to smash her little skull into the stone palace walls. She’d handed the baby off to a servant, or Henry, and smashed her fist into walls, letting them bloodied, for not only her failures as a mother, but for failure to recognize the will a child will have.

But Regina would love her mother, she surmised. Love her enough to make her own will Cora’s will, and with this thought, Cora learned the machinations of soothing. To a degree, of course.

Regina resumes small, hiccupy sobs in her arms after just moments, the noise ringing in her ears, and Cora’s eyes darken with the implications. 

 _"Hush."_ She bites into the air, and Regina is silenced by that tiny infusion of Cora’s power into her words. Like a spell cast, and received. 

"Mother will always know what to say, my darling. Mother will always be there to make sure you’re doing your very best. Mother cares, so much, my love." She croons, and the baby’s eyes are so very questioning, and so very earnest. How is Regina’s heart? Like a little dove caught between the hands of a curious child? 

How so very breakable. 

She lifts the baby’s head to her shoulder, allowing her to rest there for a moment. She gently pats her back, hearing her breath start to even.

"I have so many plans for you. You will be great. You will be  **Queen**.” That word is final. It reverberates through the room, echoing through old stone and new jeweled and silk cloth. A ring twisted like a snake around her forefinger. A promise sealed by a name. There will be nothing standing in her daughter’s way, Cora would be sure of that. Every obstacle will be dealt with, especially those of the heart.

The baby makes a crooning noise, like an affirmation, and Cora puts her back in the crib. She places her arm on the crib’s side and rocks it, until every noise is silenced. Regina tries to put a thumb in her mouth, and Cora pushes them away. 

She looks out at the window; at the pink sunrise turning to daylight golds, at the rise of the green mountains, and the clattering knights assembling for practice. A new world, but a world she was meant for. “And I will be there to place the crown on your head. I will be beside you, and we will see their knees bruising on the stone.” She says into the stilled air, out the window, through the trees, resounding through the entire kingdom. They would all know her name. The name of their  _Queen._

She rises to her vanity table, leaving Regina to play with the stitching on the crib. She’ll give her the rattle once she goes to see the King for their daily meetings. The noise is nauseating, like the sea before a storm. 

She catches her reflection, and doesn’t quite recognize the coldness in her eyes, her hair still limped from sleep, the slope of her neck, her curves filled from daily meals. She doesn’t recognize it, and there’s not a sight she’d want more. Another smile curls, and she raises color as red as apple to her lips. 

Hunger gnaws at her belly, and she lets it. Fairly soon Henry would be by to stammer out a plea to take his daughter out for a walk in the garden, or something else entirely unhelpful. He has a notion he can  _save_ Regina, if only he coos at her like an imbecile enough.

"I do hope your father doesn’t spoil you today, darling." She says to the crib. There is a gurgle, and she likes to think of it as an agreement.

As if she needs saving from her  _own_ mother.

How ridiculous a notion.


End file.
